


Who do you call for?

by HazelDomain



Series: God Made Me Do It [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, Dean delivers a beating, I don't know the name for Sam/Chuck, M/M, Or Cham., Or Suck., Polls seem to favor Chum or Shuck, Protective Dean, Rape Aftermath, Revenge, Sam is a rapist, Slightly Out Of Character, Traumatized Sam, Victim Blaming, Violence, blunt force trauma, revenge rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7449595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelDomain/pseuds/HazelDomain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His whole life, Sam has prayed to god. Turns out, he should have been looking to Dean the whole time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who do you call for?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [interstitial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstitial/gifts).



Dean was waking up and he needed to stop, he needed to stop, he needed to _stop_ and he couldn’t. His breath was hitching and his eyes and throat burned and he couldn’t stop them. The world was going to end because he’d let Amara out and Chuck had taken it out on his ass and now he was curled up in Dean’s bed like a _baby,_ trying to force his body to calm down. Dean was waking up and he needed to stop and he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

“Sam?”

Dean’s voice was sleep-muddled and slurred. Like he couldn’t figure out why his little brother was in his bed for the first time in almost thirty fucking years. Good question, Sam thought, but he couldn’t make a lie come. He was glad it was dark, and when Dean reached out for him, he flinched.

“What’re you doing in here? Something happen?”

“Yeah,” Sam forced himself to say. The words wouldn’t come. He didn’t know how to say it. Didn’t know the words. Didn’t know how to explain how it had happened. How he’d let it happen.

Dean was up already, his gun in his hands, not bothering with the light switch.

“What is it? Amara?”

“No.”

It came out a whisper, and Sam felt his throat contract around the sound of it. Dean was looking at him strangely.

“What, then? Is Crowley up to something? Or fucking- if Rowena’s pulled another one of her-”

“It’s Chuck.”

Dean paused, waiting for him to go on.

“Is he okay? He’s not- he’s not dead, is he?”

Sam shook his head. He didn’t trust himself to talk. He wanted Dean to come back to bed, wanted to feel the warm solid weight of him there, watching, protecting him like he always had.

He couldn’t say that out loud. He would never, ever say that out loud.

“Talk to me, man. What’s happening?”

“I can’t.”

Dean turned and came slowly back toward the bed, edging cautiously toward Sam.

“Is it a spell?”

“No, I just-” _got fucked within earshot of three other people and said nothing_ “I can’t-”

Not even Lucifer, he’d never been able to tell Dean about Lucifer, never let it show. Because Dean could never know what happened to him, what Lucifer had done, what Sam had agreed to, by being his vessel, by joining him in the cage, and Dean could _never know-_

“Sam!” Dean was in front of him, snapping his fingers, loud and sharp. Sam focused, tried to focus, couldn’t. Dean was talking but he couldn’t hear.

Lucifer wasn’t Chuck. Chuck wasn’t Lucifer. He’d gone to Chuck for _help,_ had called on him again and again and again, had trusted in him-

_Chuck knew about Lucifer._

The realization hit him like a physical blow, the knowledge that he’d never told Dean but he’d told Chuck, lying awake in motel beds and the bunker’s concrete bedroom, staring at the ceiling and remembering Lucifer’s voice, Lucifer chiding him for being _stupid_ enough to say yes, _stupid_ enough to lock himself in Lucifer’s cage, making him regret all the things he’d agreed to, when he let the archangel into his body.

He’d called out to Chuck then, begged for help, for intervention, for freedom, and after a while, for death.

His throat was closing and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get enough air to sob, and Dean was on him in a second, pushing his hair out of his eyes and searching his face for some clue.

And Sam couldn’t tell him, couldn’t let his brother know all the things he’d allowed to happen, had agreed to with his compliance, his silence, his weakness-

Dean’s face hardened in the darkness.

“What did Chuck do, Sam?”

He couldn’t. He couldn’t-

Dean pulled him in close, sitting next to him in the bed, letting Sam’s head rest on his shoulder, and slowly Sam’s breath came back to him. He calmed, bit by bit, telling himself the next part wasn’t coming, pretending that Dean wasn’t going to need an explanation for this-

“Alistair used to ask me every morning,” Dean said after a while. “He used to tell me what he had planned. And he’d ask if I’d rather do it to someone else, instead. Every day. He’d make me ask for it.”

Sam said nothing, focusing on the feeling of his brother’s body, always solid, always steady, always there to catch him-

“I used to pray, you know. Never really thought it would work. But I thought of you, and how you used to-” Dean’s voice caught and he stopped. “There were others. Just, around. And I could hear them, screaming and begging and after a while, I figured, ‘when in Rome,’ you know? And so I called him too.”

“It didn’t help,” Sam said quietly. “He never came.”

“Yeah, I know. And you know, I think it was easier for me, because I kinda knew he wouldn’t. But you, and Cas, you guys always really believed he was there, he could hear you. That if things got really bad, got really desperate, he’d come. But me, I always knew he was a worthless bastard.”

Sam had a sudden wild thought, a memory of Dean in motel bathrooms, alone in the car, tucked into smoker’s corners, cell phone pressed to his ear, leaving messages for a father who never picked up. So maybe they weren’t so different after all.

“What did Chuck do, Sam.”

Dean’s voice was low and quiet, inflectionless, and Sam thought that if there were more light, his brother’s eyes might be tinged with black.

“We went into the storeroom. Me and him.”

‘ _And then what?’_ Dean would ask. _‘Did he hold you down? Did he gag you? You got a couple good hits in, at least, right?’_

Sam couldn’t do it. He couldn’t go on.

“Are you hurt?”

Sam shook his head, knowing Dean could feel it in the dark.

“He healed me. After.”

Dean nodded.

“Okay. What do you want to do about it?”

 

 

 

On a good day, it never would have worked. But this wasn’t a good day. It wasn’t even a bad day. It was, quite possibly, the _last_ day, and that’s why they didn’t waste time.

Chuck saw it in Dean’s head the moment he walked into the main room, saw the malice behind his cordiality, and he realized he’d miscalculated. He’d made the Winchesters, both, spun them together from whole cloth and bound them together in ways that would save the world, but he hadn’t accounted for this. He’d listened to them cry into the silence for years without ever turning to each other- only to have _this_ be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

He sighed and rose, resolutely following Dean to the boiler room.

“Dean, if this is about what happened with Sam-”

Dean’s fist caught him across the jaw and that was a surprise. He’d expected a dressing-down, a lecture on his responsibilities as Creator, but not a leap straight into violence-

Only the attack wasn’t over. The hit’s momentum carried him straight into Dean’s other fist, striking him hard against the temple, and then both hands were in his hair, dragging him down to where Dean’s kneecap met the bridge of his nose with a sickening _crunch._

“This is about _so_ much more than Sam,” Dean growled, and Chuck barely heard him, his blood was roaring through his head and he could hear it pounding in his broken septum. And it _hurt,_ it was already healing but it _hurt,_ like his weakened state was binding him tighter to his vessel, and Dean was talking again and Chuck couldn’t hear because he was clutching at his face, transfixed by the blood dripping onto the floor-

“ _Focus_ ,” Dean snapped, and the word was punctuated by a boot to the ribs, overbalancing him and sending him crashing to the floor. Dean was above him in a second, his knee resting on Chuck’s sternum, cutting off his air.

“I don’t have time to show you everything I learned in hell,” Dean intoned. “But then again, you already know, don’t you?”

Chuck didn’t answer and Dean slapped him hard. His teeth dug into his cheek hard enough to bleed, and he nodded desperately, his head pounding when he did.

“You know everything that happened to me. And everything that happened to Sam. Because you watched it and you did _nothing._ ”

Another slap. This one hurt less, the stinging pain was lost in the pounding in his head. Chuck struggled to inhale but Dean’s weight was unrelenting on his chest. There was a time when he could simply have erased the man from existence- at the moment he could barely heal his own vessel.

“Please,” Chuck rasped, his hand batting weakly against Dean’s thigh. “Can’t-”

“Yeah, that’s what that feels like, asshole. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not sympathetic. I know what it’s like to _watch_ your lungs fill with salt water. That’s what torture’s _like_ for people who can’t die.”

Dean leaned back, letting Chuck take a gasp of air, and then another when the hunter drove a fist into his belly.

“You feel that? That kinda vague sick feeling, like the whole area’s just all fucked up? I don’t feel that any more. It’s specific for me, because Alistair took my insides out and showed me what each individual part feels like, when you hurt it.” Dean tapped his forehead. “You don’t forget that shit, you know? Like you go to school and your teacher says ‘the digestive tract is 30 feet long’ and you think ‘oh, that’s interesting,’ but you don’t really _get_ it until all 30 feet is strung out in front of you and there’s a dude with a mallet working his way down the whole thing.”

Chuck spat out a mouthful of blood and Dean hit him again, twice, once in the ribs and once in the liver. Breathing suddenly hurt and Chuck realized the rib was probably broken.

“But you _know_ all this, I know you do, because I was telling you about it when it _happened,_ remember? Me and everyone else in the pit. I know, cuz I could hear them.”

Chuck rolled on his side, trying to get to his feet, and Dean kneed him in the groin. The pain was incredible. All-encompassing. Chuck could hear a raspy wheezing sound which he realized was his own breath. Dean carried on, unconcerned.

“I’m not even gonna pretend I know what happened to Sammy. I know he was down there longer than I was. And I know he spent the whole time getting Lucifer’s personal attention. And I know he spent the whole time- the _whole_ time- praying to you for help. Cuz I know my brother.”

Dean caught him by the lapels, yanking him up until they were practically nose to nose.

“And that means I know what you did to him. He wouldn’t tell me, but I know. Cuz I’ve been there.”

He yanked against Chuck’s collar, driving his forehead hard into the bridge of Chuck’s nose, breaking it for the second time. Chuck saw stars. All the metaphors he’d heard humans use- he was beginning to understand them now.

“But you _haven’t,_ Chuckie, and I think maybe that’s the problem.”

Dean was tearing his shirt wide open, the jersey knit splitting easily under his fists. He drove a knee into Chuck’s side, turning him onto his belly, and he yanked the torn halves backwards, wrenching Chucks’ arms behind his back. “I think you stand back and justify all your noninterference with all kinds of philosophical bullshit, and I think it’s because you’ve never known what it’s like to really _be_ there.”

The two halves of the shirt were knotted together with surprising efficiency, pinioning Chuck’s arms behind him, and they were forced up and back as Dean yanked him to his feet. Dean dragged him along, headed for a workbench against one wall, and with a start, Chuck realized Sam was here too. He paused, staring, but Dean didn’t slow down. There was a sickening _pop_ as one of his shoulders popped from its socket. Sam’s eyes widened but Dean didn’t react, just shoved him forward against the table. It was rough wood, Chuck could feel it scraping against his bare chest.

“This is how it starts, Chuck,” Dean said quietly. “It hurts, at first. It just hurts, and that’s bad, but it gets worse.” Chuck heard a knife flicking open and his blood ran cold, but Dean didn’t cut him. Instead, he slid the blade beneath his jeans, splitting them open along the center seam.

“Then you start getting an inkling of what’s _really_ going to happen and that’s worse, isn’t it? Because there’s that part of your brain that doesn’t believe it. For a couple minutes there you get to experience the sensation of believing two things at once- you know it’s going to happen and you know it _can’t,_ not to you. Not like this.”

Dean yanked the torn denim down, baring Chuck’s ass, and to his amazement, he _could_ feel it. That firm, steady belief that this would stop, that it couldn’t continue, that something would interfere.

“This is probably the part when people start asking you for help,” Sam said evenly. He’d approached from Chuck’s side, so quietly he hadn’t heard him coming. He laid his hand on Chuck’s injured shoulder, adding pressure until Chuck couldn’t help but scream in pain.

Chuck heard the sound of a belt buckle, heard Sam’s zipper, and in an almost detached voice, he heard himself insisting that it wasn’t real.

“Who do you call for?” Sam said, and Chuck could feel something hard and blunt pressing against his asshole. Sam leaned forward, laying the torn condom wrapper on the table beside his face. “They won’t come. You, at least, have the satisfaction of _knowing._ ”

Sam began to push into him and Chuck groaned, trying to twist away. Dean’s hand was a stone weight between his shoulders, holding him down, holding him still.

The pain wasn’t awful, not compared to the pain in his shoulder or the pain in his nose, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant.

Sam and Dean weren’t particularly enjoying it either- he still had enough juice to see that, at least. Sam’s mind was a blank mask of grim determination. There was a dim glimmer of satisfaction, of a revenge fulfilled, but mostly, Chuck saw, the two men were just doing what they’d been raised to do.

In their minds, they were killing a monster.

“Who do you call for?” Sam repeated. Chuck closed his eyes and wished for his sister.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so apparently it was Interstitial's birthday yesterday and since she's pretty much my Internet Bestie, I told her I'd write her a bottom!Chuck. And this is the first thing that occurred to me. 
> 
> Thanks to AmeliaCareful who contributed the name of the series.


End file.
